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Saturday, December 1, 2012

A Request for a Reading

I won't be able to make it to the remainder of my writing classes at Utah State University this semester. I have been diagnosed with a lymphoma and am scheduled at Huntsman Cancer Institute over the next two weeks. For this reason, I am pleading for feedback on the following piece. This is to be a part of my final portfolio for Non Fiction Writing. Unfortunately, I won't have the opportunity to workshop the essay with my classmates. So I am asking for feedback from anyone who happens to see this. Please note any suggestions on grammar, punctuation, or content changes that would improve the piece before I submit it next week.Please be brutally honest and give me constructive criticism to make this essay the best it can be. Thank you!

Over-Time Angel

My dad used to say, "Georgia,
you are the most accident-prone person I have ever known."I believed him.Good thing for Mike.On a damp and chilly day in January 1969, a
month before my seventh birthday, my family was visiting San Francisco. I was riding in the camper shell on the back
of dad's 1967 robin-egg-blue Ford pickup truck.Dad had propped a kerosene heater in the corner to warm the camper.A sudden bump in the road caused the heater
to tip spilling kerosene across the
plywood floor. It instantly ignited.Within seconds,the camper filled
with flames, smoke, and heat. Dad drove obliviously down another hill unaware
his truck was on fire.Pulling myself
onto the bed at the front of the camper, I pounded on the window, my eyes and
lungs burning.

It was a long-haired, bearded, denim-clad man
in an orange Dodge Charger driving behind us who recognized my peril before dad
did. He drove alongside the truck
forcing dad off the road. He leapt from
his car, pulled open our tailgate, and yanked the burning plywood onto the
ground. Mike peered into the smoke-filled
camper shell and met the red-rimmed eyes of the little girl perched on the bed,
who thought she was done for.

Wrapped
in a singed blanket, I huddled in mom's lap on the curb while dad cleaned out
the camper. My rescuer walked up and
said, "Are you okay? I bet that was scary being in a fire."

I
only nodded; I was too shy to speak. He
didn't tell us his name, but to me he looked like a 'Mike'. It was the last time I ever saw Mike, but it
was not the last time he ever saved me.

When
I was ten years old, I fell into a discarded broken window slicing my wrist to
the bone. While stitching up three
veins, a bundle of nerves, and a large flap of flesh, the doctor marveled aloud
that I hadn't severed the artery. I was certain
Mike had protected me from bleeding to death.

At
twelve, I leaned a ladder into an old breaker box with glass fuses. Mike threw me clear at the first spark. An explosion, fireworks, and unbelievable
heat should have fried me on the rungs. The melted metal glob had to be pried
off the wall with a 2 x 4.

Two
years later I was given the responsibility of riding Buster, our unruly horse. Buster was a white stallion with a bad
attitude. He hated being saddled,
refused to take a bit, and would sulk the whole time I rode him away from the
farm. The second I turned him back
towards home, he bolted. No amount of yanking
on reins or hollering, 'whoa' could keep him from galloping at a full-out, frenzied
hurtle. He shot under low-hanging tree
branches, exploded over ditches and bushes, and darted around barking dogs. It
was a battle to stay in the saddle clinging with hands, arms, feet, and legs. All he wanted was his warm barn and oats and
to be free of his saddle and rider.

After
several days of this madness, Mike put an idea into my head: 'Ride Buster at the rodeo grounds.' It was brilliant! I could walk Buster into the large show
arena, fasten the gate, and gallop him in a huge circle. Buster was calm and well-behaved when he
couldn't tell which direction home lay.
Of course, he still made a mad dash for home as soon as the gate was
opened and we exited the show grounds.

One
day we arrived at the rodeo ring to find three, gaily-painted 50 gallon drums
set up in the arena. I had always wanted
to try barrel racing like a beautiful rodeo queen. I excitedly urged Buster into a canter toward
the first barrel. We circled it. I pointed him to top of the triangle and
barrel number two. Around it we looped,
then on to the third barrel. We made a
wide, sloppy circle to complete the cloverleaf pattern. Then it was a straight
shot back to the gate. Oh, that was fun! I had to try it again, but this time with
some speed. I wrenched Buster's head
back around to face the first barrel. A
kick to the flanks. We were off. We quickly slipped around barrel number
one. My adrenaline was pumping as we
thundered towards the next one, but disaster struck at the top of the
diamond. We approached too fast and
instead of moving to go around the barrel, Buster stopped short and
reared. My body whipped forward, backward,
then off onto the ground. I wasn't
injured. The soil was soft, but I knew
instantly I was in trouble. My cowboy
boot was caught in the stirrup and Buster, abandoning my plan of circling the
third barrel, bolted straight for the open gate. My head and body bounced through the plowed earth
raising a cloud of dust down the entire length of the arena. I thought, 'this is how my life will end.'
There was no way I could survive the pounding of being pulled more than
a mile across the hard-packed ground, graveled parking lot, paved roads,
canals, and rough fields to our farm.

I
tried to sit up and twist my boot out of the stirrup. I attempted to pull my foot from the
boot. The pressure of being drug by that
one foot wouldn't allow for either. I
screamed, "Stop, Buster!" I
caught air as he turned the corner at the mouth of the gate. It was useless. There was no stopping him when I was tugging
on his reins; with reins flying free, the outcome was inevitable.

Just
as my body hit the edge of the graveled parking lot, Buster stopped. He came to a full, stand still halt. I didn't waste a second. I twisted my boot and pulled it out of the
stirrup. I jumped to my feet. I expected to see someone holding Buster's
reins, but they lay limply on the ground.
I looked around and saw no one.
Buster continued to stand motionless.
I grabbed his reins and led him over to metal rails of the arena. I leaned against the fence to catch my breath
then I stepped up on the bottom rail to scan the vicinity. Mike wasn't waiting by the grandstands or
lurking near the snack bar. He wasn't
sitting on the bullpen or the horse corrals.
I couldn't see him, but I was sure he was there. Buster continued to wait calmly while I
regained my composure and emptied dirt from my boots, shook out my hair, and
patted dust from my clothes. Then, for
the first time ever, Buster serenely allowed me to mount. As we slowly made our way home, I examined
each knobby hillock, old tree stump, rock outcropping, and brush ditch bank I
should have been drug across, over, and through. I imagined my little brother, Jim, finding my
battered body tethered to Buster by a shattered leg. I shuddered.

In
the 36 years since that day, Mike has been busy. There was that Jeep rollover in 1980; a
high-speed, rear-end auto accident in'93; and the near-drowning of '96--just to
name a few incidents Mike saved me from.
I don't know why Mike first appeared as a scruffy man in San Francisco
and I haven't set eyes on him since.
Maybe my older eyes cannot perceive him?
Perhaps he got better at his job and staying out of sight? Someday I
will see Mike again--maybe on a cloud in heaven. I will walk up to him, take his calloused,
work-worn hand, and look into his blue eyes.
We will talk about all the times he saved me from accident and
injury. He will tell me about all the
other times he saved me when I wasn't even aware I was in danger. Mike has
accrued some serious overtime.

9 comments:

Georgia, I'm no writer, but I think you may have missed a word..."I pointed him to top of the triangle..." Maybe the "the" is implied? I'm so glad your life has been blessed by "Mike" and it's good to know that there are many people watching out for you. Lisa

It's fantastic Georgia. I can imagine your teacher being so enthralled with this essay that they won't even worry about grammar and such......

Had you ever thought about our belief that Michael is another name for Christ? Mike is a good name for your amazing friend who has saved you from so many calamities. And may he be with you in your current journey . . . . .

I loved reading your essay! I was totally enthralled by it. I give it an A plus, plus, plus!!! I'm sorry to hear that you are having a health issue! Please know that we will be thinking of you and praying for you!

You have probably already turned your essay in but I will comment anyway... it was well written and quite a story. That "Mike" sounds like quite a guy, and how lucky you are to have him watching out for you. I like that you picked the name Mike, which of course is from the name Michael, which happens to be my favorite male name of all the male names in the world, and coincidentally is my husbands name. I will be praying for you Georgia.